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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220099">Ghost King</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimanre/pseuds/Aimanre'>Aimanre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Percy Jackson and the Olympians &amp; Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Comfort, Gen, Ghost King Nico di Angelo, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insecurity, Light Angst, Nico Feels, Nico is a good kid, Nico-centric, One Shot, Past Abuse, Post-The Battle of the Labyrinth (Percy Jackson), Sad Nico di Angelo, nico is trying his best okay, spooky sad boi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:27:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,991</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimanre/pseuds/Aimanre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumors of a haunted painting send the newly minted Ghost King snooping into an art gallery. The task is simple enough, deal with the wayward ghost with a swipe of his Stygian Iron. What he gains instead is a late-night cuddle and some body art.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ghost King</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The strong smell of bleach and painting oils wafted up his nose. Nico sneezed. <em>Damn art galleries, </em>he thought, <em>who the hell still visits these places anyway when there’s a 4D theatre a block away? </em></p><p>He walked past a grotesque painting and turned into the next hallway.</p><p><em>Boomers, that’s who, </em>he thought, staunchly ignoring the fact that he was older than most of them. He sidestepped a log sticking out of the ground at a bizarre angle, which was supposed to be some kind of abstract art if he got this right. <em>What the hell is that supposed to represent? Demeter’s escalating attempts at flooding the world with green? </em></p><p>As much as he would rather spend the night curled up on some street corner, catching up on some much needed sleep, he had duties to fulfil. It had been a month since the Labyrinth, since stupid handsome Percy Jackson saved him, since he had stood in front of King Minos and claimed the title “Ghost King”.</p><p>Since Bianca’s parting words.</p><p>His big sister had stood in front of him, a pale imitation of life, and asked him to learn to forgive, asked him to be a hero. And he would be damned if he failed her.</p><p>So here he was, a month later, in the gleaming abyss of a non-decrepit art gallery on the outskirts of the city. Nico had just been in the area looking for leads on Kronos’ plans, snooping around in the shadows as one does, when he heard whispers of a haunted gallery. Of course, by whispers he meant the ranting of a drunk patron in McDonald’s (hey, not all knowledge comes in spooky forms) but the tale had been floating around enough that he gave some credence to it.</p><p>This wayside area- a forgotten part of the city’s outskirts- had an urban legend of a haunted painting in this gallery, rumoured to host a ghostly hand sticking out of it and beckoning hapless visitors. The legend had solidified itself when a janitor on his nightshift was found unconscious the morning after in front of the painting, and woke up pale-faced and deranged, refusing to speak of the encounter. Whether this story was true or not, it had clearly instilled terror in those who <em>live </em>and shirked the laws of the Underworld. It was the Ghost King’s duty to deal with wayward ghosts. And damn it, Nico might not be a hero like Bianca or Percy or Thalia, but he had claimed the title “Ghost King” for himself and he would shoulder it. This much at least he could do.</p><p>“<em>Can you though?” </em>whispered a voice that sounded far too similar to King Minos at the back of his head.  “<em>Let’s not pretend your feat was anything more than a gift of your blood. You’re not worthy, you’re not Bianca.”</em></p><p><em>Shut up, </em>he thought fiercely, now was not the time to squabble with imaginary abusive past father figures. He took another turn, made a face at the graphic nude sculpture of a woman, and stepped into the nook housing the infamous painting.</p><p>The first thing that struck him was a strange sense of melancholy. The painting was placed away from the rest, probably due to its haunted nature, but he had a feeling it went beyond that. Nico knew nothing about art of course, but in these halls filled with intricate sculpting and larger-than-life illustrations, walls full of angry reds and desolate grays, this painting was… unexceptional. It was a large landscape painting of a quaint little neighborhood with a canal cutting through the middle. Everything about the picture screamed idle contentment and quiet beauty, each detail had clearly been crafted with a loving eye, from the lazy sparkle of the water to the mid-morning drift of clouds. Nico could almost smell the crisp brine of the canal and felt a wave of homesickness for a home he couldn’t recall.</p><p>He stepped closer to the painting and ducked under the rope guarding the illustration from the grabby hands of visitors. There was a fallen plaque gathering dust at the base, a toppled stand right beside it, probably the work of teenagers on a dare to reach the haunted object. He crouched down to read the inscription. There was a woman’s name written under the artist section, with a short description of her life below her name. She was the wife of a wealthy patron with no professional background in art but had found comfort in the skill. <em>Ah, that explains why it’s so ordinary compared to the others. </em>There were huge letters saying “GRACEFULLY DONATED” at the bottom with a quote below it that said “In death, she lives on through her passion” citing that she had died of a stroke in 2010 at the ripe age of 84.</p><p>Idly, he twisted the skull ring on his finger, wondering who the ghost was then. The artist had seemingly died of natural causes. Had the artist murdered someone near the painting then? Or had the painting fallen on someone’s head and killed them? Hey, weirder things have happened in Nico’s life. Untethered ghosts were not unheard of, but his stint in the Underworld had taught Nico that most souls would rather pay Charon’s price and enter the afterlife (even Hell) than lurk around in the surface world shunning the justice of Hades. That was a sure-fire way of bringing down the wrath of the Furies down on themselves, and no one wanted to deal with those pesky claws. When a soul evaded afterlife, there was usually a strong reason for it, a sense of unfulfillment and frustration. Most of the time, it was a victim seeking justice for their murder or something equally gruesome. They were souls taken before their time and the restlessness of that fact pervaded their existence.              </p><p>It was only a step from that to becoming a mindless Lemure, a thoughtless void of darkness and rage, choking on their own fury until they devour themselves and take down the living with them. He had often seen King Minos mete out justice to them. A swift flourish with Stygian Iron was enough to banish them to Hell to pay for their treason. That was Nico’s job now.</p><p>He rose from his crouch, brushing dust off his jeans, and came face-to-hand with the ill-famed limb. Wordlessly, he pulled out his sword from the shadows. <em>One slice, </em>he thought, <em>just cut through them and end it. </em>He knew the protocol, his infernal weapon would send the soul straight to hell but it wouldn’t cut anything from the mortal world, the painting wouldn’t even bear a scratch. It didn’t matter who it was, shirking afterlife and remaining in the surface world was grounds for high treason. This was his father’s justice, as old as time, it was his duty.</p><p>Then why couldn’t he lift the sword?</p><p>The shrill laughter of King Minos filled his ears, he could almost see the cold spectre floating beside him, with his sharp crown and sharper smile. <em>Useless,</em> he said, <em>I can’t believe your father let you take the title from me. An ignoble whelp like you carrying out a King’s justice? What a jape! No wonder His Holiness would rather Bianca be the living one, no wonder they cast you out like a leper from that camp. You really are a shameful, disgraceful little-</em></p><p>“Shut Up!” Nico roared at the long dead wraith. He heard the surprised screech of a bat and the flutter of wings. “I said shut up!”. Minos was dead, he was dead and not a ghost, he was dead and far from Nico. Then why, why in the world could he not get him out of his head? Hadn’t he endured enough? Enough pain, enough betrayal, enough rejection? Was that why his mind clung onto that monster still? Was this his punishment for being alive when Bianca was dead?</p><p>Nico placed his sword down and pressed his face into his hands. He felt worn and haggard and stretched-thin, the desperate nights of solo-survival catching up to him. In this second, he felt all the years Lotus Casino had stolen from him in the ache in his soul. Once, just for <em>one </em>moment, he wanted to be held and comforted. To be told that was loved and wanted regardless of whether he was brave or strong or <em>forgiving. </em>That it didn’t matter if he wasn’t a good hero like Bianca or Percy as long as he was himself.</p><p>But that was a stupid child’s dream. Nico di Angelo was 11 years old and a veteran a hundred times over. He might not be good enough for anyone and he might be all alone in the world but he was a Prince and a King, and one of <em>his</em> <em>people </em>needed him.</p><p>Because the palm stretched outward, fingers curled in a hopeless beckoning, were unmistakable in their old age. Wrinkles adorned the frail hand and paint smudged the fingertips in loving strokes. There was no mistaking it, this was her, the artist. The ghostly hand was yearning for touch, and Nico was helpless in the face of that need. He took her hand and drew her gently out of her colourful cage.</p><p>She slid out of the painting with all the grace of a bird. <em>Nonna, </em>he thought, taking her carefully into his arms. She was as light as a feather, frail and soft in old age. He cradled her close and she curled into his touch with a trust he didn’t deserve, the soft downy hair tickling his cheek. They stayed like that for a moment, two lost souls reveling in the quiet comfort of human contact.</p><p>“You put so much of yourself into this painting. That’s why you couldn’t leave. You filled it with your heart.” He said, voice hoarse and raspy.</p><p>She hummed in response, but her pale eyes were fixed on her art. It must have been long since she was able to see it in full, being trapped as she was. It was like she couldn’t bear to look away. “I-It… was where I grew… before war.. before… life.” She rasped in broken words, clearly unused to speaking after these long years of otherworldly silence. “It is… happi..ness.. it is my.. ha-heart. But… no one… came. No one… liked.”</p><p>He could imagine what she meant. He doubted the visitors this gallery boasted of had much appreciated the plainness and surface-level simplicity of something like this. It must have made for a lonely existence.</p><p>“I like it” he said. Nico was no good with words, but she needed them so he would try. “It reminds me of home, though I don’t remember it.”</p><p>Her gaze had turned to him, eyes glistening with something incredibly fragile. Something told him that whatever he did next would be irrevocable, he had a feeling he held her heart in his hands.</p><p>“Thank you.” He said, “You did good.” He infused his next words with underworldly authority, “Be at peace.”</p><p>Her lips quivered into a watery smile, the crows feet crinkling at the ends of her eyes. Nico caught a faint whiff of sulfur and paint, felt the lightest of touches against his cheek, then in a glimmer, she was gone. Distantly, he could sense Charon's boat dipping under a new weight.</p><p>Nico sat still for a minute, arms empty, alone again. He let out his breath once, then paused and breathed again, more deliberately. Finally, he rose. He reverently placed the fallen plaque back onto the stand, he brushed his thumb against the name printed there in golden letters. Nico might only be good at remembering things, but maybe that was all she needed of him. <em>Ana Rizwa of the bright colors</em>, he thought, <em>I will remember you</em>.   </p><p>Two minutes later, the Ghost King exited the gallery, with a lump in his throat and bright paint smeared on his cheek.</p>
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